Strength
by HaloFin17
Summary: A oneshot sequel to "Weakness" in which Achilles and Patroclus have another Elven encounter. Other characters include Odysseus and Eudorus, and this time, the Elf is Maglor. Don't know who that is? You just need to read to find out! Enjoy!


**Summary: **A oneshot sequel to "Weakness." Why? Because Achilles and Patroclus must have one more Elven encounter before Halo will let the world of Tolkien leave them alone. Other characters include Odysseus and Eudorus, and this time, the Elf is Maglor. Don't know who that is? Just read on to find out. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **There's a lot I would give to be able to say that I own these amazing characters and storylines, but unfortunately, there are some things that will simply never be. It all belongs to Homer and that veritable genius, Tolkien.

**Author's Note: **Hey, everybody! I didn't tell many people that I had a sequel planned for "Weakness", so hopefully this comes as a pleasant surprise for most. As is the case with most of my fics, a thousand thank-you's to **Torilei** for letting me bounce ideas off her and helping me smooth out some of the finer details! You're awesome, Tori-kins! Now fyi, I did add a little more to the library scene in the last chapter of "Weakness" that comes into play here; so feel free to go back and reread that part if you like, but it isn't absolutely necessary. So anywho, I hope you all enjoy this little sequel, and I'll see you again at the end!

**Strength**

Patroclus stirred suddenly and rolled over in bed, his spirit restless. He couldn't sleep, never mind the fact that he and Achilles had sparred late into the evening until they were both exhausted. Or until _he _was exhausted, anyway; somehow Achilles always managed to make their sparring sessions seem like little more than a light workout. If nothing else, their times together of late had proven to Patroclus that he still had much to learn before he could ever be considered his esteemed cousin's equal with a blade.

But that was a fact of which he had been well aware for many years, so surely it was something else that now troubled his mind, robbing him of his rest. The youth stubbornly lay still and closed his eyes, but sleep remained elusive. With a heavy sigh, he at last gave in and sat up in bed, swinging his long legs over the side; for it seemed sleep was determined to evade him for the remaining hours of the night.

He knew his cousin often experienced difficulty sleeping as well, but Patroclus had never known exactly what the older man did to pass the time during those wide-eyed, restless nights. He wearily closed his stormy blue eyes in admission of defeat and raised a hand to idly rub the back of his neck. He may not be able to say what Achilles would do in this situation, but for himself, there could be no better way to spend an evening alone than on a walk by the Sea.

His decision made, Patroclus slid into his sandals and noiselessly slipped out of the still house. The clean night air blowing in off the waters immediately embraced him, and the boy drew in a deep breath to savor the refreshing sensation. It was not a long walk down to the beach, even with Patroclus ambling along leisurely to take his time. There was no need to hurry.

But at length he arrived, and the rolling waves were as welcome a sight to him as they had ever been. He waded in until the water was up past his ankles and then walked on mechanically as his mind wandered. Yet his thoughts kept drifting invariably back to the vast body of water in which he stood – to the gentle push and pull of the waves at his feet and to the rhythmic, soothing sound they made as they caressed the rocky shore.

Patroclus stood still for a moment then and turned his gaze westward to the horizon where sky and water blended into one. Perhaps the reason he'd been drawn down to the Sea was because here he could forget where he was, if only for a little while. After all, the Sea is the same everywhere – steady and unchanging, even throughout the centuries.

The young Myrmidon allowed himself a small smile as he recalled the first time he'd heard those words spoken by an ancient, bearded shipwright. It all seemed so long ago now, but in reality, it had only been two years. Two years to the day, in fact, which probably explained his inability to rest that night. Two years to the day since he, Achilles, and King Odysseus of Ithaca had returned from their adventure in the Elven realm of Lindon – an adventure Patroclus knew would never be surpassed in the remaining years of his mortal lifetime.

Eudorus, Achilles' long-time friend and second-in-command, had been at once both overjoyed and terrified upon seeing them return, for he had believed at least Patroclus to be long dead. But once all had been explained, Eudorus' emotions had shifted to overjoyed and skeptical. He had listened attentively to their tale, but still clearly had his doubts concerning the whole affair. In the end, he had concluded that his three comrades-in-arms were either certifiably insane or simply conspiring together in some humorless joke to irritate him. He had often told Patroclus that he hoped it was the latter, despite the youth's endless insistence that every detail they'd told him had been nothing but the truth. And although Eudorus grimly humored them, Patroclus could tell he still did not believe.

The boy sighed, shook his dark blonde head, and resumed his walking. Two years to the day…

He was nineteen now, and still living with his cousin. He wouldn't have had it any other way, for he loved Achilles dearly, and neither of them saw any reason as yet why they should part. But there were admittedly still times, times like this, when he would think back fondly to those all-too brief days spent in Lindon and sadly smile.

Scarcely a day went by that he did not think of Gil-galad. The High King of the Elves had been extremely generous to his young guest, even going so far as to further instruct him in the art of warfare; and his musical voice would often echo in Patroclus' mind with words of encouragement and guidance whenever he and Achilles sparred. Patroclus let out another long, quivering sigh. He _did _miss him. He had known he would, ever since they'd left, but it made the separation no easier a burden to bear.

Hot tears burned suddenly in his eyes, and Patroclus furiously brushed them away. He knew he needed to move past all this, just as he had known with equal finality on their last day in Lindon that he would never see Gil-galad again. He would never see any Elf again, for that matter. It somehow felt as though he had left an entirely different world behind him, never to return. The memories often consumed his mind, yes; but from now on they would never be more than just that – memories. He could only hope that, no matter how many years he may live, those memories would stay as vivid and lifelike as ever, so that he might never begin to believe against his own will that it had all been nothing more than a dream.

He allowed his nostalgic thoughts to continue wandering, and before long, Patroclus began to hum a few bars from a song he had picked up while amongst the Elves of Lindon. He sang what few words he knew, although the words themselves meant little to him. He hadn't exactly been there long enough to learn the language, after all. But he had always thought this a beautiful melody, nonetheless – beautiful and strangely sad, as many things had seemed in Lindon. Far too many things.

"How does a mortal child know this song?"

Patroclus jumped at the strange, melodious voice that had broken into his reflections and snapped his head around to seek its source. A tall figure draped in a worn and tattered grey cloak stood on the beach a short distance behind him. Wiping his suddenly sweaty palms on the sides of his tunic, Patroclus took a few cautious steps toward the stranger – cautious, but hardly fearful. His heart was pounding behind his ribs in anticipation, for with those few words, the stranger had already betrayed himself.

"You are an Elf?" the boy asked softly, all the while silently hoping against hope that the very thing he had just deemed impossible might now be a reality.

The deliberate nod of a dark head answered him. "I am. And who are you, child?"

_Child. _That had ever been Gil-galad's favored manner of addressing him, as well.

"My name is Patroclus, son of Menoetius. What is yours?"

"How do you know that song, Patroclus?" the Elf inquired, pointedly avoiding the question of his identity.

"I was in Lindon only two years ago," the youth explained eagerly, for surely a true Elf would never discount his story as a mere myth or fairytale.

But he held his tongue as the mysterious Elf also stepped closer, and the moonlight finally dispelled the shadows from his features, revealing fair skin and a smooth, ageless complexion. But his piercing grey eyes, while as bright as Gil-galad's had so memorably been, bore a look of such unending pain and unfathomable sorrow as Patroclus had never seen before – not even in the silvery eyes of Cirdan the Shipwright, whom Gil-galad had assured him was the oldest of all Elves in Middle Earth. Having this stranger's eyes upon him made Patroclus want to squirm with a discomfort he had never known even in the High King's mighty presence.

The stranger spoke again. "And what would bring a young mortal like yourself to Lindon?"

"Gil-galad," Patroclus at once answered, both truthfully and succinctly; and he might have sworn that he saw a ghost of a smile pass over his companion's face before the ageless countenance was once again shadowed by an unsettling melancholy.

"You know Ereinion, then?" the Elf asked, and the question was definitely accompanied by a raised eyebrow.

"Yes, I know him," the young Greek replied, glad to be speaking of the immortal he was privileged enough to consider his friend; yet he frowned slightly.

_Ereinion. _That had been Gil-galad's true name by birth, and Patroclus had only ever heard it used by Cirdan, who had known the High King since he was very small – certainly long before he had acquired the surname. So why should this stranger also refer to his monarch as such?

"Do you know him?" he inquired slowly.

The Elf hesitated, and a shadow seemed to pass over his face at the question. "Only from a distance," was his dark reply. "We were never formally introduced."

Any variant of expression Patroclus might have imagined on his companion's visage at once gave way to the underlying bitterness and grief that seemed so customary of this Elf – a sorrow that was at once so natural and fitting for him, and yet unnatural as well. He was more of an enigma than any Elf Patroclus had ever met during his own brief time in Lindon.

"But you have not yet explained _why _you were in Lindon," the stranger continued and then waited, clearly expecting a more detailed response this time around.

Patroclus drew a deep breath, anxious to finally recount his exploits to one who might fully appreciate their magnitude, and began his tale. The Elf standing apart from him listened in silence, asking no questions and offering no sign that he had even heard a word; but somehow Patroclus knew he held his companion's undivided attention.

"But when I went back to find Gil-galad, my cousin was there, too. Apparently, the Trojans had told him what really happened, and he then followed me all the way to Lindon. We left about a month later," the youth concluded and held his breath to see what this new Elf might have to say about his adventures.

He waited for several moments in uncomfortable silence before his companion at last deigned to speak.

"I am not at all surprised your cousin came for you, even over such a great distance and no doubt only through much difficulty," he commented slowly, deliberately. "For I know well of the strength of the bond between cousins – often times stronger even than the bond of brothers, I think."

Patroclus' mouth turned in a quizzical frown. Surely there was more to be said here…

"Why would you say that?" he pressed, still feeling it wise to be a mite cautious in his approach to this elusive stranger, but dying to hear more.

This time, there was an undeniable smile brought to the Elf's face – still strangely sad, as it seemed he always was, but a smile nonetheless. He tilted his head to stare bemusedly at the young Greek.

"Do you know nothing of the song you sang, child?"

Patroclus felt his cheeks burn in embarrassment as he realized that he truly had no idea what he had been saying. Or singing, rather.

Hoping that the darkness of the night would hide his flushed face, he admitted, "No. I'm afraid I learned little of the Elven language while I was there." His voice turned suddenly hopeful. "Are you very familiar with the song?"

That elicited even a brief, mirthless chuckle from his companion. "I should be. I wrote it."

The boy's jaw dropped. Surely this night was blessed by the gods! Or by the "Valar," as Gil-galad and the other Elves named their deities. Achilles had chastised him on more than one occasion for inadvertently using that term since their return home. And while he realized that he was proverbially "throwing caution to the wind" as his elders had so often admonished him _not _to do, Patroclus stepped even closer to the stranger, closing the distance between them considerably.

"_You _wrote it?" he prompted, desperate to hear anything his Elven companion might tell him. "What is it about?"

The stranger took a step closer himself, still guarded in his demeanor, but apparently willing enough to indulge the boy's curiosity.

"It also is a story of two cousins," he elaborated at length. "Fingon and Maedhros – both of them great warriors and princes of my people. They were the closest of friends, ever since they were quite young. They learned to ride, hunt, and even fight together."

Patroclus grinned. These cousins reminded him of Achilles and himself.

"What happened with them?" he urged.

The Elf's gaze grew distant then, and as he continued, it was almost as though he had forgotten Patroclus was even there.

"The two were fast friends, but there was ever strife and enmity between their families; eventually, the feud strained even their relationship almost beyond repair. But their friendship was never entirely forgotten, and Maedhros remembered his cousin when his own father became lost in a cruel madness and wished to betray Fingon and his family. Unfortunately, his loyalty did nothing to alter the shameful desertion that followed. Very shortly thereafter, Maedhros himself was captured by the great Enemy of the Elves, who then set our noblest prince to torment, hanging him by his right wrist on a cliff face where he remained in anguish for many years."

Patroclus winced and unthinkingly rubbed his right wrist as he imagined the dreadful pain that this Elven prince Maedhros must have endured. The Elf continued his tale, his voice now very low and forced, as though the words themselves pained him.

"Even Maedhros' own brothers refused to come for him, for they were bound by an accursed Oath to their own errand, one that could not be compromised even for the sake of their dear kinsman. But Fingon remembered their ancient friendship, and it was finally he who, after much trial and hardship of his own, was able to free Maedhros from his captivity. But only at a terrible price! For the band of hell-wrought steel which held Maedhros to the cliff could not be severed or released, and the only way Fingon could save his cousin was by cutting off his right hand."

The speaker's voice was desperately strained now, and Patroclus was amazed at how the mere retelling of an ancient anecdote could evoke such raw emotion from this Elven storyteller. For his own part, he was staring down at his own right hand and wondering suddenly if he would ever have been able to inflict such agony on his own beloved cousin, even if it _was_ meant to save him.

"But Maedhros _did_ survive?" he questioned haltingly, wholly ignorant of whether or not this chilling and thrilling tale would end well; but the midnight-haired Elf nodded to allay his doubts.

"Yes, he did; and in time, he grew to be even more deadly wielding a sword in his left hand than he had ever been with his right. Child, what you sing is the 'Song of Fingon,' which tells of that much celebrated rescue."

Patroclus breathed out a long, subdued sigh and glanced away. "I had no idea."

The immortal being beside him was now staring out pensively across the Sea, apparently lost in his own thoughts; but Patrolcus seized this moment as an opportunity to study his strange visitor more closely. Although this Elf was somewhat shorter than Gil-galad and of a slighter build, it gave no indication of how old he truly was. A shroud of what Patroclus now recognized as guilt seemed to hang over the stranger like an impenetrable cloud, and there was a look of such incredible loneliness in his countenance that the youth's heart ached for him. But what caught Patroclus' attention next was something he would never in all his years forget, and it made his stomach roil.

The Elf's hands were burned - burned as only the living flesh can be. The skin of his palms was an angry red, and the scarred tissue shone even in the pale moonlight. It looked unbearably painful, but the Elf seemed to pay no notice to it. Patroclus stared in morbid fascination, unable to take his eyes off the gruesome sight. The wounds weren't bandaged, so perhaps they had been acquired some time ago, even though they still appeared nauseatingly fresh. On a sudden impulse, he wanted very badly to ask his companion what could possibly have happened to cause such affliction, but he dared not. It was almost as though some unseen force outside himself forbade it, restraining the question even as he felt it coming on his lips.

"Where are you from?" he asked instead, if for no other reason than to distract himself from the horrid scars. "Lindon is far to the north of here, and being this far south, surely you must be far from home."

A sad smile graced the Elf's fair features - indeed, it seemed the only smile he was capable of - and he quietly replied, "Those of us who wander are never far from home, little mortal. But do not assume then that I am lost; for I assure you I know well from whence I have come, where I now am, and whither I shall go."

Patroclus pursed his lips together thoughtfully. "Will you remain by the Sea?" he inquired of his companion. "I remember Cirdan once telling me that all of your people love it, even as I do."

The Elf sighed, and his response was laced with bitter remorse. "We do, although not all of us for the same reasons. I choose to spend my days by the Sea because it holds the greatest of all treasures – one I have held, lost, fought for, and regained, only to lose again at great pain."

Recalling more of the afore-mentioned conversation with Cirdan, Patroclus suddenly wondered if his companion was referring to the elusive "Undying Lands" he had heard the shipwright speak of; yet somehow that didn't seem to fit. He opened his mouth to question the Elf but soon thought better of it. It was not his place to inquire after something he knew full well he was never meant to understand. And he certainly had never spoken of such a place in front of Achilles.

"I wonder what my cousin would make of all this," he pondered aloud. "If he would see the similarities between the story you told me and our own two years ago." Then sighing, the young Greek confessed, "Achilles has been like a father and a brother to me for nine years now, and I love him very much; but sometimes I still feel like little more than a burden, or that I'm fated to be only a shadow of someone I can never hope to rival." Patroclus felt himself blushing again, for even looking back, he would never know what had possessed him to so abruptly confide in his mysterious companion.

"You are not alone, child," the Elf answered him, and there was a definite empathy in his melodic voice, a voice that at once both soothed the mind and stirred the deepest emotions of the heart. The sound of it was like nothing Patroclus had ever heard before, and he wished it would never end. "Remember, Maedhros was the elder and ever the more promising and kingly of the two cousins I spoke of. But in the end, it was Fingon who saved Maedhros in his time of need, and it was Maedhros who years later knelt before Fingon and called him 'King'."

"Hmph. I don't think Achilles will ever kneel before me," Patroclus retorted, laughing bitterly at the thought. "I can't imagine any reason why he would want to."

"Perhaps not," his companion continued smoothly, "and somehow I doubt Fingon ever desired such a thing, either. But the moral of the story for you remains unchanged. You may not be Achilles, young one, but that does not mean that you are weak. Like Fingon, your strength is of a different kind than your cousin's; but you are no less strong."

The youth glanced up, daring to meet the stranger's haunting grey gaze. "Will you not stay a while and meet my cousin?" he asked hopefully. "I'm afraid he may not believe me otherwise when I tell him there has been another Elf in Greece."

"Oh, I think he will believe you, child," the mysterious Elf replied. "After all, he has been listening to our conversation for some time now."

Patroclus followed a gesture of the stranger's marred hand back toward the rocks a short distance further up the shore, and sure enough, he could just make out the dark outline of his guardian amongst the shadowy boulders.

"Achilles!" he exclaimed, hurrying up to greet his cousin. "I am glad you are here. There is an Elf here that you must meet - an Elf _here_ in Greece!"

The youth turned to call his enigmatic companion forward, that he might introduce him to Achilles; but when he looked, his face instantly fell.

"He's gone," the stunned boy murmured. And it would seem he was correct, for the space on the beach where the mysterious Elf had once stood was now empty, and not even the slightest mark of footprints remained to testify that he had ever been there. It was very much as though he had simply vanished, drawn perhaps like a vapor or a mist into the Sea along with the never-ending waves.

"And we don't even know his name." There was no hiding the youth's crestfallen disappointment; and for a time, he could only stare out over the open waters, now scarcely acknowledging the great warrior beside him.

"Was all this just a dream?" he wondered numbly.

But Achilles reached over and gave his shoulder a quick squeeze. "It was no dream," he comforted his cousin. "I saw and heard him, too. But, Patroclus, it was not wise to engage him so closely; the fact that he is an Elf does not necessarily mean he is a friend. You do not know how dangerous he might have been."

Patroclus could not resist rolling his eyes. "I was in no danger, cousin. He was not armed."

"Neither were you. Besides, one does not need to be armed to be dangerous. One does not even need both hands to be dangerous, if this Elf's story is to be believed."

"Do you believe him, cousin?"

Achilles shrugged and stared in his turn out over the dark, churning waters. "I suppose I have no reason not to."

* * *

The timing of Odysseus' visit the next day was no accident. The Ithacan royal had come at this same time last year, and Patroclus knew it was in order to commemorate their past adventures together. He hoped it was a tradition they would continue for many more years to come. Shortly after his arrival, Odysseus sat comfortably in the shade with Achilles, Patroclus, and Eudorus, listening with intense interest as the two sun-bronzed cousins told him of their mysterious late-night visitor.

"Are you certain, absolutely certain, that he was an Elf?" he questioned them, although the thought of another Elven encounter in Greece secretly excited him as much as it did Patroclus. The only thing he could not understand was what business any Elf might have here in these southern lands, especially a lone Elf.

"Yes, I'm sure of it," Patroclus insisted. "He called me a 'mortal child' and looked enough like the other Elves we saw in Lindon, with the same dark hair and grey eyes, that there could be no mistaking his race. He told me a story of two Elven cousins, Fingon and Maedhros - of how long ago Fingon rescued Maedhros from captivity and torment. It must be a great tale among the Elves."

"It is indeed," Odysseus confirmed, smiling fondly, "for it recounts one of the most legendary acts of valor in all of Elven history. That was how Fingon, son of Fingolfin, came to be known as 'Fingon the Valiant'."

"Fingon the Valiant," Achilles murmured, his brows drawn together thoughtfully. "I know that name. I remember seeing it back in the libraries of Lindon, when Odysseus was looking at the royal Elven lineages. I always did wish to learn more of this person called 'The Valiant,' but I never asked anyone about him while we were there. All I remember is that he was Gil-galad's father."

"What?" Patroclus now had his elder cousin locked in an intense gaze. "What did you say, Achilles?"

"Only that Fingon the Valiant was Gil-galad's father," the golden warrior repeated, not at all understanding his young charge's sudden earnestness. "Having just spent so much time in Lindon yourself, cousin, I'm surprised you did not know."

"No, I didn't," came the boy's hushed reply. This added a whole new level of meaning to the stories he had heard last night. This very same Fingon that the mysterious Elf had spoken of was the father of Gil-galad himself!

"But you said he 'was' Gil-galad's father, cousin. Does that mean that he's…?"

"Yes, Patroclus," Odysseus answered in his friend's stead. "Fingon is dead – as is Maedhros. They both fell a long time ago."

"In the same battle, then?"

"No, I'm afraid not. Fingon fell first; although in hindsight, it might have perhaps been best if the two _had_ died together." The Ithacan was silent for a moment, then abruptly leaned forward in his chair. "Now, what else can you tell me about this Elf you met last night? Did he remind you much of Gil-galad?"

"Yes. Gil-galad was powerful," Achilles observed solemnly, "more so than I would have ever cared to admit two years ago. But somehow he disguised it, masking his true power with a veil of kindness and a gentle spirit. This Elf we saw last night...this Elf was every bit as powerful as Gil-galad, I think. But he seemed to conceal it with a pretense of unimportance and a shroud of grief - although, grief over what exactly, I cannot say."

"His hands were burned," Patroclus added, shivering slightly at the memory. "It must not have happened recently, because they weren't bandaged, but it still looked very painful."

When Odysseus did speak, the words came out in a breathed whisper. "Maglor, son of Feanor."

Patroclus shuddered suddenly, unable to explain the haunting sensation of mixed dread and awe that had come over him upon the mere hearing of a name.

"Feanor?" he repeated, and Odysseus nodded gravely.

"It can be debated, but he is acclaimed by many to be the greatest Elf who ever lived. The creator of their greatest joys and treasures, and the author of their greatest woes – deeds so dark I feel it is not even my place to retell them."

"But that is his father you speak of," Achilles broke in. He would never admit it to anyone, but the name of 'Feanor' had made him strangely uncomfortable as well, only he could conceal the fact better than his younger cousin. "What more can you tell us of Maglor himself, Odysseus?"

The King of Ithaca raised an eyebrow. "You saw the royal family trees along with me, my friend, but clearly you do not remember. For Maedhros was the eldest of Feanor's seven sons, and Maglor is the first of his younger brothers."

"His _brother_?" Patroclus echoed in disbelief. "And that would mean Fingon was his cousin, too! You mean the Elf I spoke to last night was Gil-galad's kinsman?"

Odysseus nodded, smiling at the wonder in the youth's deep blue eyes. "Most of the powerful Elven lords are related in one way or another."

But Eudorus only rolled his eyes, wholly unimpressed. "Yes, yes, these alleged people have fathers and brothers and cousins just like the rest of us. Will the wonders never cease?"

"You still do not believe us, do you, Eudorus?" Odysseus said, humoring his comrade with a hearty laugh. "But for the sake of our other friends here, I will tell you all more of Maglor. His heart has ever been with his music, for he is a skilled harpist and one of the most renowned bards the Eldar have ever known. Only one musician in history has ever been considered greater than he. Of all the sons of Feanor, Maglor was always the mildest in temper and the gentlest of heart."

"Do you know how is hands came to be scarred so badly?" Patroclus asked, still almost fearing the answer.

"I do," the noble Greek replied, his face somber. "But that is a very long story, and one I will not tell in full here. Some other time, perhaps. For now, all you need know is that his hands once held a treasure so precious that he had given everything, some would say even his very soul, to possess it. But he was not worthy of it; and when he finally held it, his hands were burned with an agony I would not wish upon any man - or Elf, for that matter. And when at last he could endure the pain of it no more, he cast this treasure away into the Sea. That was many centuries ago, and nothing has been known of him since. But apparently he is still very much alive and at large in the world, even if he is now a homeless wanderer."

"He told me he would ever choose to remain by the Sea," Patroclus said slowly, remembering the Elf's words. He frowned deeply and stared down at the floor, his young face thoughtful.

"Are you all right, Patroclus?" his cousin inquired with some concern.

The youth sighed, sounding suddenly very weary himself. "Yes. It's just that the events Maglor spoke of sounded like they happened so long ago, which I'm sure they did, and yet...yet there is only one generation between Fingon and Maedhros and the Elves who rule today – Elves like Gil-galad."

Odysseus nodded, his expression calmly sympathetic. "Yes, Patroclus, that is exactly right. It is one aspect, among many, that makes the story of the Elves so tragic."

"Tragic?" Eudorus echoed skeptically. "What can be so tragic about a people that never die?"

"That they never die, of course," Achilles stated matter-of-factly, his comment taking them all by genuine surprise. "What else?"

The Myrmidon captain offered no retort to his commander's challenge, but his pale blue eyes darted back and forth among his three comrades. He then grunted softly, sounding very much like a gruff old shipwright whose very existence he doubted, and took a long draught of his wine.

"I had hoped it wouldn't come to this," he muttered, "but it would seem you three really are insane after all."

The others only laughed at him, and the remainder of Odysseus' visit was as pleasant a time as any they could remember. Patroclus never saw Maglor again after that memorable night; but there were many times when, having been robbed of sleep, he would hearken to the call of the Sea and walk along the shore, and there hear what sounded like a haunting melody, laden with sorrow and beauty, carried on the wind. Some nights, that ethereal voice seemed like little more than his own imagination, but Patroclus believed ever after that what he heard was the mournful song of the Bard of the Noldor.

**Author's End Note: **And yes, this is the end. Just a oneshot for a sequel, but I think it worked out well. And can you tell I've had Tolkien on the brain lately? Well, even more so than usual, anyway. At heart, I feel "Weakness" was a comparison of the foster-father relationships between Achilles and Patroclus and Cirdan and Gil-galad; but I also wanted a chance to compare our favorite Greek cousins with my favorite Elven cousins, Fingon and Maedhros. I briefly considered another long, epic literary endeavor in which I would actually bring Fingon and Maedhros back to Middle Earth from the Halls of Mandos; but that would be totally messing up the whole history of ME, and I didn't want to do that. I mean, I'd actually need a real, viable, earth-shattering reason to bring them back to life in the first place, lol. Besides, somehow I doubt Achilles would get along with Maedhros as well as he did with Gil-galad. Those two probably _would _end up killing each other! Or at least come pretty close to it.

But also, I've always been fascinated with fics involving Maglor at later points in history, so I really am satisfied with this little sequel. Btw, if you liked this and feel that you've got a fairly good grasp on the Elven characters involved, I strongly recommend a fic called "War Dust" which is another story with Maglor amongst the Greeks during the Trojan War. It's Maglor's POV, so very different from "Strength" here, but indescribably excellent! I want to cry every time I read it, it's just so good. Obviously, this was another one that would make more sense if you were already familiar with Tolkien's works, but if anyone has any pressing questions after reading this, please feel free to ask me. I'd be only too happy to answer them! And well, I guess that's that. Thanks for reading, everybody, love ya!


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